I'm Jason Lin.

  Dont know who that is? I dont even know who I am either these days.

  Former StarCraft II pro, that's what they used to call me.

  Once upon a time, I lived by the whirring sound of mechanical units, the clicking rhythm of my keyboard, and the cheers that rose from a crowd I couldn't even see behind the stage lights. Now, the loudest thing in my house is the clock ticking above my desk. Fitting, I guess time's been my only opponent these days, and I'm losing slowly but surely.

  Due to age, due to all the nonsense out in the world. Mostly old age.

  After that, the game changed. The meta evolved, players got younger, sharper, faster. I watched my name slip down the rankings, from top ten to top fifty to "former pro." At first, I tried to grind my way back. Practice ten hours a day, analyse replays, tweak builds. But it was like chasing ghosts, ya know?

  My old self was always a few APM ahead.

  These days, I teach a few kids online. They call me "Coach Lin," not realising I used to be the guy they watched highlight reels of. I show them timing windows, talk about map control, and explain why you never float 1,000 minerals unless you're panicking.

  Sometimes, I see the same fire in their eyes that I used to have back in the old days, the very same hunger to prove something in a digital battlefield. It's bittersweet. I'm proud of them, but a part of me aches, wishing I could still keep up or else its Carpal tunnel syndrome, the risk of getting one is high.

  Sometimes I boot up the game just to hear the startup sound.

  I'll play a ladder match or two, usually get crushed by someone named "Sseoni" again, heh, he's always climbing the rank. He probably doesn't even know who I am these days. But every now and then, I win one. I execute a perfect drop, micro like I used to, and for a brief moment, yeah? That guy has been the Southeast Asian champion for five straight years. And it wasn't even him that dethroned me.

  For just a few glorious minutes, it's early 2010 again, and I'm standing on stage under the lights, crowd roaring, hands steady.

  People think esports is about winning. It's not. It's about the rhythm of the game, the precision, the creativity, and the constant adaptation to the meta. It's the art of thinking faster than another human being. And even if I can't play like I used to, I still carry that mindset with me. The discipline, the obsession, the beauty of it. the cheese of the game. The unorthodox playstyle of getting the one-up against your opponent, either in macro or micro play. Every unit counts, every APM click counts. One more unit, one more kill count, how fast you build it, how fast you can match the opponent's economy and dominate.

  It's what makes RTS fun for me, it's why I still play this old game even when the company didn't exist no more or has merged with some Chinese company back in 2030. I really thought the Koreans would buy them since it's their national game and all that, I guess League of Legends has placed higher these days.

  Not like anyone remembers Starcraft anymore.

  So yeah, I'm Jason Lim, retired StarCraft II player. My wrists ache, my APM is shot, and the game has moved on without me. But when I close my eyes, I still see the battlefield with those darn blue minerals, the glowing command centres, the crisp voice that says, "You must construct additional supply depots."

  Till I had a nice retirement and my life came to an end.

  It was ...alright.

  I thought I was going to Heaven.

  I thought wrongly.

  When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Rust, oil, and the faint tang of salt from the sea. It wasn't my apartment. It wasn't even anywhere familiar.

  I was lying on cold metal, or the coffin my kids ground my ass into since I passed away. I was an old man when I died...was.

  Now, where the hell am I? The afterlife?

  Why does the afterlife smell like salt and piss?

  On the side of an old freight car, the paint was flaking off in layers. The air was heavy with the low hum of distant industry, and somewhere not too far away, I could hear gulls. A trainyard stretched out around me, littered with broken rails and abandoned cars, graffiti marking the walls in symbols I didn't recognise. So not the afterlife then...

  King Yama playing jokes, huh?

  I sat up slowly, my head pounding. "What the hell…" I muttered, rubbing my temples.

  I patted my pockets. No phone. No wallet. No ID. Just the same hoodie I always wore when streaming, faded and comfortable, the one with the DreamHack logo still stitched on the sleeve as I had it back in my professional days.

  "Okay," I said to myself, taking a shaky breath. "This… isn't funny."

  I stood and looked around. The city skyline wasn't one I knew, but it had that American industrial look, just like dock cranes, low-rise warehouses, and a distant oceanfront. The air felt off, though. Heavier somehow.

  Like the atmosphere carried something waiting to happen. In Asia, the docks were different; containers are neatly arranged with strict logistics. Not...whatever this is.

  Then I saw the posters. Torn flyers were pasted to a nearby wall.

  "CAPE CONFLICT INCREASES AS PRT URGES CAUTION."

  "Eidolon Sighted in Boston for Endbringer. Watch Heightened."

  That word. Endbringer.

  My chest went cold.

  Of course it did, I knew it. What else would you do when you grow old? you retire. Suddenly you have a lot of time. Suddenly, that time is filled with reading stuff on the internet, and more stuff. Reading was my second favourite hobby, and oh boy, is that one a woozie. Written by Wildbow, they say. Odd name if you ask me.

  I'd read Worm years ago, binged the entire web serial between tournament trips. The idea of parahumans, powers triggered by trauma, the city of Brockton Bay is slowly rotting under its own corruption. I stared at the words, trying to convince myself it was a dream.

  Except the wind was real.

  The grit on my hands was real.

  The metallic echo of my footsteps is all real.

  Piss ass smell is real.

  FML ..this is really happening, isn't it?

  Somewhere down the track, I saw a figure moving between railcars, a woman in a yellow raincoat, carrying a duffel bag. She glanced at me once, then turned away fast, as if strangers were bad news around here. Do I know her? dear lord, I hope not. Let it be a transmigration story so I dont have to deal with anybody.

  And maybe they were a stranger, yeah? The genre was dark after all.

  I laughed nervously under my breath. "Of all the universes to end up in…"

  I didn't have powers. I didn't have money, allies, or even a clue how I got here. But old habits die hard, ya know? The same instincts that carried me through tournaments kicked in. First: assess the map. Second: gather intel. Third: survive until you understand the meta. Same mindset I had when I was coaching, too. It's all the same.

  The game had changed, but the rules hadn't.

  I pulled my hoodie tighter and started walking toward the city. If this was really Brockton Bay, then I needed to find out when I'd landed before the chaos really started. Because I've read it before. Should it be the same or different?

  The crunch of gravel under my shoes was the only sound for a while until something thudded onto the ground beside me. I jumped back on instinct, years of reflexes snapping into place like I'd just heard a drop alert. Was something underneath me?

  There, sitting on the tracks in front of me, was… an SCV. beside a bunch of trash and stuff.

  A real one.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Compact, blue, industrial-looking, like it had rolled straight out of my old Terran base. The little mining unit was about the size of a small car, metal plating scuffed and dusty.

  Its mechanical arm twitched once, the engine humming softly like an idle computer fan. It looks like a mini mech. It's bigger than I'd imagine in real life. I guess the real thing was pretty huge then. Kinda reminds me of Ripley claw mech. It has almost the same size, somewhat smaller, albeit.

  For a long, stunned moment, I just stared at the thing.

  "…No way."

  Then I saw the note taped to its side, written in looping handwriting that looked far too cheerful for the situation-

  "Sorry, this is your goddess. I wish I could reincarnate you, but you made me lose a bet to Zeus and Sun Wukong back in 2011 DreamHack during the finals, soo... enjoy Grimdark with a free SCV as a cheat, you filthy Terran player! Humph!"

  Sincerely,

  Goddess in charge of Earth 246511 Prime world

  P.S. Find your own ID. Oh, and here's 200 dollars. Enjoy Brockton Bay!

  There was a small envelope taped underneath the note. Inside two crumpled hundred-dollar bills, American currency. Real. I just stood there, blinking at the letter, rereading the words Grimdark and free SCV over and over.

  My brain finally caught up. "Wait. She's for real? Bruh."

  I looked up at the empty sky. "You lost a bet to Zeus and Sun Wukong? Over DreamHack back in 2011? I was just playing for fun!"

  Well, I played to win, got contracted with Orange E-Sports gaming and all that. Big money. Big sponsorship and all that. I had to win! It's my job! and my dream!

  The clouds didn't answer. Somewhere far off, a horn blared the kind that sounded like a ship leaving the docks, except they aren't. The docks in Brockton Bay isnt working due to the underwater debris. That horn was miles away, probably near the Boston side.

  Shit.

  This is my life now. Even the best years of my life offended someone, and it happens to be the goddess, great.

  Absolutely fantastic!

  The SCV suddenly beeped, its console lighting up with the familiar blue Terran interface. I actually laughed half in disbelief, half hysterical relief. "You've got to be kidding me."

  The thing stood still.

  "Alright," I muttered, rubbing my face. "So I'm stuck in a world full of capes, monsters, and trauma-based superpowers… but I have an SCV. That's...uhh"

  I hesitated, then smiled faintly. "That's...actually the most Terran thing that could happen."

  I turned toward the city skyline, the distant lights flickering through the fog.

  "Let's see if Terran ingenuity still works in Brockton Bay."

  In the StarCraft series, one of the most recognisable and indispensable units of the Terran faction is the SCV, short for Space Construction Vehicle. Though it lacks the firepower or sophistication of combat units, the SCV is the foundation of Terran military and economic power.

  From the first StarCraft in 1998 to StarCraft II, the SCV remains the literal and symbolic cornerstone of Terran ingenuity, resilience, and adaptability. Did you know that back in the first StarCraft game came in white.

  Not blue. The T280 SCV is regarded as the foundational unit for the Terran Forces. They also had better plating back then. Broodwar knows I even rely on SCV to fight zergs.

  The SCV gave a low mechanical whir, its cockpit hatch hissing open with a puff of compressed air.

  I stared at it, heart pounding. No pilot in there, but it is moving on its own.

  The interior looked exactly how I remembered it from the in-game cinematics, rugged, utilitarian, glowing with that blue Terran light. This one seems to be the SCV from Starcraft 2. It doesn't have the external plating from the base SC1 based on the Korpulu Sector.

  The controls weren't futuristic in the sleek sci-fi sense; they were industrial. Worn joysticks, analogue switches, and a seat that looked like it came straight out of a construction vehicle, compared to the traditional mech design similar to the Thor.

  "Okay," I murmured. "This is insane. But if I'm going to survive here…"

  I climbed in.

  The hatch sealed behind me with a clunk. The hum of the engine deepened, resonating through the frame like a heartbeat. The moment my hands touched the controls, everything went white.

  A flood of data slammed into my mind; it was knowledge.

  Blueprints, schematics, resource charts, unit production cycles, everything I'd ever seen in the Terran tech tree and more. Every iteration, every DLC, every patch, old and new, every item removed and added into the latest patch, and even Blizzard's very own concept items came to my head. including the odd CO-OP variant trees and the various Commander specialised units. They were all there. All the knowledge.

  Command Centres. Barracks. Factories. Starports. Add-ons. Supply Depots. Engineering Bays. Fusion Reactors. Orbital Commands. Heal Reactors, nanomachines. Stimpaks! glorious stimpaks!!

  It wasn't just visuals. I could feel how to build them.

  The exact mechanical sequences, the material requirements, and the energy flows. The logic of Terran infrastructure, once just a game mechanic, has now burned itself into my skull as reality. I dont think I have parahuman powers. I know how to forge Neosteel!

  Or just synthesise one for that matter.

  This is probably the goddess, or then I receive a message from the other two gods. Zeus and Sun Wukong, with a note, "Sorry about that stupid goddess, here's a tune up.. We hope this is adequate compensation", like a foreign eldritch thought came into my head from the multiverse.

  "Sun Wukong and Zeus"

  I gasped, clutching my temples. Off pairing. One was a Roman Pantheon, and the other is from the Jade Palace. I wonder who the goddess is? Ugh...screw her. The only reason I'm here is because of her mess. Why give me powers when they can just send me back to the afterlife?

  Or...I could just end myself now.

  ....

  ....

  ...

  Nah.

  The cockpit HUD flickered wildly, cycling through data streams in languages I didn't recognise. My brain felt like it was being rewritten line by line, like a computer forced to download an entire encyclopedia through a dial-up connection.

  STOP! Just slow down!" I yelled, but the data didn't listen.

  Images kept flashing before me-

  An SCV is welding the first panel of a Supply Depot. Marines training in rows, armour glinting under artificial light. The dull red glow of a Starport reactor.A Command Centre landing on a fresh planet, dust swirling around its base.

  Then… silence.

  I slumped forward, breathing hard. My vision swam with afterimages, holographic outlines of structures flickering faintly in the air around me, like augmented reality ghosts. My head is a little fuzzy from all the downloading...I think a Migraine might be coming in.

  "Okay," I whispered, voice trembling. "That… was new."

  I slumped forward, breathing hard. My vision swam with afterimages like holographic outlines of structures flickering faintly in the air around me, like augmented reality ghosts. It's like a set of rules, step 1. Gather resources.

  closed my eyes, steadying my breathing.

  If I could really build Terran structures in this world… that changed everything. I have my cheat.

  I glanced out through the SCV's reinforced window at the trainyard, a wasteland of steel and silence. "Alright," I said quietly. "Step one: find materials. Step two: test if Supply Depots actually work."

  But then I realise...

  I realised after the data storm cleared that I had a problem.

  A big one.

  I stared at the holographic blueprint, which hovered faintly in front of me from the SCV. A perfect, glowing wireframe of a Supply Depot floated above the cracked concrete as my mind's UI showed me exactly what I needed. Vespene gas? Minerals??

  "Right," I muttered, rubbing my temple. "And where, exactly, am I supposed to find minerals in downtown Brockton Bay?" I looked around. Rusted shipping containers. Empty train cars. A suspiciously large pile of shopping carts. Not exactly rich in space crystals.

  "People here don't have blue mineral patches growing out of the pavement!"

  A beam of blue light swept across the area, passing over piles of metal scrap, aluminium cans, and a forgotten propane tank. After a few seconds, the unit cheerfully announced:

  "Update complete! Mineral substitute identified: metal. Vespene substitute identified: butane or other hydrocarbon gas."

  I blinked. "You… updated yourself?"

  "Affirmative. Patch 1.01: Real-world compatibility update installed."

  couldn't help it, so I started laughing like a madlad.

  Is this for real?

  It wasn't the calm, relieved kind either. It was the half-delirious, 'of course this would happen to me' kind. I mean, in a situation where a goddess lost a bet to Zeus and Sun Wukong, I mean...my life is one big troll at this moment. Oh, right, troll me, will ya? My life is the gods' entertainment.

  "So let me get this straight," I said between chuckles. "You're telling me that I can build Terran bases now, as long as I feed you scrap metal and cooking gas?" That's what the SCV is saying right? That would be so much better if it were true.

  I stared at the SCV for a long second. Then, at the propane tank sitting nearby. Then back at the SCV.

  "Oh yeah," I sighed. "I'm totally going to get arrested for this. Nothing suspicious about a random guy in a hoodie dragging a giant construction mech and a gas tank through a crime-infested city."

  "Awaiting construction orders."

  I pointed a finger at it. "You stay here. No building. No welding. No, anything until I figure out how to not get shot by a gang member or arrested by the PRT, got it?"

  "Affirmative. Standing by."

  The SCV tried to salute without me controlling it! That's some advanced A.I . I may have thought that this thing got inside its mainframe? I wonder what kind of processing power it has on a basic SCV. I thought I needed to pilot the thing directly, but I guess it comes on autopilot as well. Very convenient.

  It gave a salute! a salute!

  Before shutting down into standby mode, the blue lights dimmed to a soft glow as it hid itself in a bunch of concrete and junk at the abandoned trainyard to remain hidden. I dropped onto a nearby crate and groaned and wondered if this was a good Idea. The place isn't exactly hidden.

  "A goddess loses a bet to Zeus and Sun Wukong, dumps me into Worm, and gives me a StarCraft utility bot that runs on scrap metal and propane. Sure. Why not. Totally normal here, I suppose. Powers are bullshit except I dont have those polentia things in my brain."

  My stomach was grumbling, and I groaned again-

  "Where the hell am I gonna get food this late at night?...on another note, what time is it? What day is it? I need to find out"

  .......

  The SCV was tucked away behind a stack of rusted freight containers, powered down and hopefully inconspicuous enough that no one would think to report "construction mech found loitering in the trainyard." I'd walked for almost an hour now with the damn sneakers crunching on gravel loosely. Wouldn't wanna get found out on my first day as a Tinker. I'd get snatched up like It's Christmas by the gangs and get pressed gang into joining the PRT.

  How does magic even work?

  Even though the shoes are new, and I feel a lot younger since I'm no longer an old man, this still needs some getting used to with all the things happening around me, not to say it ain't comfortable, but I was an old man.

  I dont even think like an old man anymore. It's the perspective shift due to all the neurons and synapses firing in my brain being active again. Age does matter. People saying age is just a number don't really know that. I might have dementia in my old age and I wouldnt even notice it.

  When was the last time I wore sneakers? In high school? Back when I was still playing for tourneys? It's like I was transported back to all those years ago, the city gradually waking around me, but it has the same beats of being in the early 2010s. Different world, same blues. Like a dream within memories of a life I didn't have, except I did. It feels surreal.

  Instead of the afterlife, Life simply goes on, giving it a harder difficulty.

  Brockton Bay wasn't what I expected. Sure, I remembered it from Worm, a grimy, collapsing port city ruled by gangs and fear. But being here in person was… different. That was a web novel. This shit here is the real thing. Not to mention, I'm even in a different country.

  The air smelled of salt, oil, and faint decay of something I'm not really sure I wanna know. Living in South East Asia, the grime and gloom are certainly different. People think America is the bastion of progress all around the world, but back in Southeast Asia? I think life back there was heaven on earth. Streets were clean, people were civic-minded, there wasn't any trash on the roadside, not even a single paper wrap.

  Here? I've passed by a dozen black trash bags strewn all over.

  Ships sat half-sunken in the harbour. Buildings sagged under their own weight, and graffiti seemed to serve as both decoration and territory markers. People moved quickly, eyes down, like they'd learned the city's unwritten rule: Don't stand out. dont smile, always minding your own business. It's a different social norm here. Back in the east, everyone minds their own business, but still cares enough to take care of each other and lend a helping hand.

  I wasn't sure if I was breaking it already.

  Or maybe I'm too harsh,

  I shouldn't judge it based on this world's sensibilities.

  This world's sensibilities have city ending Kaiju's after all.

  After wandering past what looked like a half-closed laundromat and a pawn shop advertising "GUNS, JEWELRY, AND DVD RENTALS," I finally spotted salvation, a convenience store. The neon sign flickered, but it was on, and at that moment, that made it the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

  The little bell above the door jingled as I stepped inside. The smell hit me first: air freshener and old coffee. A comforting kind of humanity.

  The cashier barely looked up from his magazine. He looked tired in that way that retail workers everywhere did. "Hey. Welcome."

  I nodded, grabbing a basket mostly for show. My stomach growled, apparently interdimensional travel burns calories, so I grabbed the essentials: a bottle of chocolate milk, a packet of sweetened bread, brand unknown bread, and a cheap sandwich that claimed to contain "real ham."

  When I reached the counter, I pulled out one of the crumpled bills the Goddess of Bad Bets had left me. "Uh, just these."

  The cashier rang me up lazily. "Four seventy-two."

  I handed him a hundo. He gave me change without a word, reluctantly due to the amount I've given and then went back to flipping through his magazine. Right, people here still read magazines, it's that far back huh? That's when I noticed the date on the lottery poster taped to the counter. It didnt really hit me until I saw the date.

  JULY 2010.

  I blinked, thinking maybe I was hallucinating. But then I saw the receipt as he handed it over 07/14/2010, 9:42 p.m.

  I froze, the carton of chocolate milk halfway to my mouth.

  "Something wrong?" the cashier asked.

  "No, just uh… this year."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? It's 2010."

  "Right," I said quickly, forcing a laugh. "Just testing your memory."

  He gave me the kind of look you give to someone you don't want to start a conversation with and went back to his magazine. I walked outside, the automatic doors wheezing shut behind me.

  That meant I'd arrived a year before the events of Worm actually started, before Taylor triggered, before Leviathan, before the world started falling apart piece by piece.

  I sat down on the curb outside, unwrapped the sandwich, and took a bite. The bread was dry, the ham questionable, but it was still the best thing I'd tasted since waking up in this universe.

  "July 2010," I murmured, staring up at the grey sky. "So I'm early to the apocalypse. Great."

  The chocolate milk tasted sweet, almost nostalgic. I couldn't help but chuckle between sips.

  "Alright, Jason," I said to myself. "A hundo and ninety-five dollars left, and about eleven months before a kaiju the size of a city decides to drop by for brunch."

  I leaned back against the wall and sighed.

  "Terran survival mode, huh? Let's see if we can micro our way out of this one. Now, where the hell am I gonna sleep for the night?"